Agatha told Roy. “I could go up to London and check at the Records Office,” she said, “but it would take ages. Wait! I’ve an idea. It would be easy if I had an idea of exactly when they got married.”
She phoned Toni. “I want to find out when and where the vicar and Trixie got married. That pig farmer fancies you. Would you mind going to Comfrey Magna and asking him?”
“If his wife’s around, she’ll throw another teapot at me,” said Toni, “but, yes, I’ll try.”
Toni decided to go straight to the pig farm. If Hal’s wife was there, she’d just have to beat a retreat.
As she approached the farm, she saw Hal working in a field near the house. She parked the car, vaulted the fence and went to meet him.
“Well, if it isn’t the prettiest detective in England,” said Hal. “Come to see the pigs?”
“No, I wanted to ask you a question. When did Mr. Chance and his wife get married, and where?”
“Let me see. Must be about ten years ago. We all thought he was a confirmed bachelor. They got married in Moreton Registry Office.”
“Not in church?”
“No, there was something about her having been divorced.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know the date?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Give us a kiss and I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me first and I’ll give you a kiss,” said Toni.
“Okay. I remember because it was the day of the Moreton Agricultural Show and I got first prize for one of my pigs. That would be on the eighth of September.”
“Ten years ago?”
“Right. Now what about that kiss?”
“Another time.” Toni darted away, jumped the fence, got into her car and drove off.
Agatha did not want to wait until the council offices in Moreton-in-Marsh opened on Monday morning, only perhaps to find that all records of marriages had been sent up to London. She travelled up on the Sunday night with Roy and booked herself into a hotel for the night, then set off to the records office in Finsbury Park the next day.
Eagerly she filled out the required forms and then searched until she found the right book and searched through the pages. Arthur Chance had married Trixie Webster. Her home address was given as 4A Puddleton Close, Cheltenham.
Agatha phoned Phil and told him to take his cameras over to Comfrey Magna and try to capture a discreet shot of Trixie. Before she went to Cheltenham, Agatha wanted to have a photograph to show around. As she travelled in a taxi back to Paddington Station, she could not lose the feeling that somehow the magic of London for her had disappeared. She could not get over the sensation that the great city had somehow become grimy, dingy and unwelcoming. Maybe it had always been like that, she thought, and one actually had to live in the place to like it once more.
I’m getting countrified, thought Agatha as the train slid out of the station. I have a cottage, I have cats, soon I’ll be wearing tweeds. She had always thought of herself as a sophisticated city person, that her stay in the country was perhaps just a phase. She remembered having voiced this idea to Charles, who had said cynically, “Sophisticated City Agatha was just another mask. People do like to glamorize themselves. It saves them from looking at the person they really are.”
“And who am I really?” Agatha had demanded angrily.
But Charles had laughed and said, “I wouldn’t dare tell you.”
Agatha wished she had brought a book or a newspaper to read on the train. There was something unsettling about being left with her own thoughts as the countryside slid by. She did not want to end her days alone. Perhaps when she decided she had enough money, she should start paying one of those high-class dating agencies or go on a cruise. Suddenly, the idea of a cruise filled her mind, an idea based on old movies where couples stood by the rail in the moonlight. She would get married and send James an invitation and see how he liked that! Damn James, she thought as the bubble of her dream burst.
She went straight to the office in Mircester, took the invitation to James’s engagement party and pinned it up on the noticeboard. Mrs. Freedman trotted over and read it. “Don’t dare say anything,” said Agatha. “Simply write out a reply and I’ll sign it. Where’s Toni?”
“She’s just phoned. She’s wrapped up a missing-teenager case and is on her way back in. Oh, here she is now. And there are some photographs on your desk. Phil said you asked for them.”
Agatha studied the photographs. There was a clear shot of Trixie leaving the vicarage, and then the photograph had been cropped to show just the head and shoulders.
“Toni,” Agatha hailed her. “I’ve got Trixie’s address from the marriage certificate. She used to live in Cheltenham. Get yourself a coffee while I look up the map and find out exactly where we’re going.”
Toni filled a mug from the coffee machine in the corner of the office. Then she saw the card pinned to the noticeboard. Her first thought was not about how Agatha might be taking the news of her ex’s engagement, but about how awkward it would be to see Harry again. Of course, he might not get an invitation. It was not as if he worked for the agency any more.
“Right,” said Agatha. “We’re off. We’ll take my car. Do you mind driving, Toni? I came straight from London and I’m feeling a bit tired.”
“Sure,” said Toni, reflecting that it was odd of Agatha to let her drive and then wondering for the first time just how badly Agatha was upset by that engagement invitation.
“This could be a wild-goose chase,” said Agatha, settling into the passenger seat and fastening her seat belt. “Maybe it’s because I really don’t like Trixie and I do want it to be her. But what motive could she possibly have?”
“Was that engagement invitation a surprise?” ventured Toni cautiously.
